


Matthew 25:33

by mimid



Series: Piano parts [2]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Headcanon, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Parent Death, Piano, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 22:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16334075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimid/pseuds/mimid
Summary: Two mercs drinking and playing piano. Things don't go very well, as usual. But,it has to be always like that?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It can be read as its own, it isn't necessary to read the first part of the series.

It's late at night in the base. Most of the mercs are hanging around the dinner room.

Demo is playing the piano with Spy by his side, both a little too much drunk. Demo is every once in a little while laughing, while Spy is smiling like a dork, adding some notes at times, but mostly watching, or more exactly: Overlooking.

Then Demo makes a silly mistake, laughs, and keeps playing like nothing. The problem is, Spy is a fucking perfectionist, a bit sadist and also, he's drunk. By impulse he hits Demo left hand, who stops playing abruptly.

Completely offended, sincerely confused and absolutely mad by that, roughly closes the piano fallboard in both Spy hands, who screams in pain knowing he deserves that, and fully aware Demo would have react in a similar manner no matter what.

Maybe Spy is a little masochist too after all, but not much. If he doesn't get out of there immediately—just as Demo—Soldier will beat him out, who is moving towards him, yelling at Spy just as other members of the team. To save himself from the rage of Jane, he use the invis watch to escape.

* * *

In the dawn and after having to _beg_ to Medic to use his medi gun in his broken hands—“That's your own fault my friend!”—Spy figures out that Demo is not only mad (how he would not): he seems actually afflicted about it. After all, he's a maudlin man and Spy has _literally_ hurt him while they were having a bit of fun in the piano.

The thing is, Spy may have done the same even sober. Not because of Demo: because _he has to_.

* * *

 The night of the next day, Spy finds Demo alone in a couch of the base. He offerts to him a bottle of fine wine.

“I'm sorry for what happened yesterday.”

Ignoring for a second that Spy has given him alcohol, and the fact that he really likes alcohol, Demo thinks in how Spy must be so self-centered to give stuff that _he likes_ —Spy in this case perfectly knows that Demo likes better cheap whisky or beer—assuming everyone else will too, but also how that means that Spy has given him something that  _he thinks_ is good, therefore, a self-centered high standard: he must be really sorry. Or, _wants something_.

Demo takes the bottle, and swirls it like it was a single glass in a either mocking or daring way—Spy isn't sure: maybe is both.

“Did ya bring glasses or what?”

* * *

 “Ya can't hit people because they pressed a wrong key on the piano! That's not how it's taught!”

Spy differs in his mind: Miss Pauling learned just fine by electrocution. Still doesn't mention anything about it, knowing that wouldn't be a good idea. The last thing he wants now is ruin the conversation the're having.

“Can I ask you how you learned to play piano?”

 _So that's what he really wanted._ Plus, conveniently change the subject. Even worse, of all the questions that he could has ask, _that one_.

“My dead parents taught me tae play piano. The ones I murdered, by accident.”

“I remember you telling us that.” Spy pauses. He didn't expected that answer: Demo lost his first pair of parent while being very young, and then got abandoned, again. Which means that, besides Tavish learned to play the instrument as a little child (likely to starting before his sixth birthday), is a experience that can't be divorced from a psychological trauma, existing an inextricable relationship between the damned instrument and the painful memories. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

Demo takes a big sip of his glass.

“I already got over it,” he lies, too proud to said something else. Besides, adding anything else would _break_ him and he knows it, even saying a simple _thanks_ now that he is this drunk. Perhaps even when sober would have the very same result.

Then, he hands his glass again for more wine, his answer for everything: alcohol.

Spy realizes he'll have to bring a second bottle from his room for that. In the way, he forgots that he already fucked up their personal party by mentioning one of the biggest traumas of Demo. That and...

* * *

 The second bottle is almost empty. The conversation and laughs have continued like nothing.

“I've two talents: playing piano 'n' makin' bombs.”

“You're forgetting about being an amazing knight in full 20th century.”

Demoman laughs, beautifully at the eyes of the Spy. Way too pretty...

Maybe is the drink. Spy has to admit that despite that being a drinker as Demoman, he has less tolerance to the amount of alcohol he has drink at the moment. Or at least he tries to actually enjoy his drinks instead of getting drown in it. Is crazy how it seems he is the one who's drunker now.

“Lemme phrase that again,” says Demo.

“Go ahead.”

“Music,” he gesticulates to the left, ”and killing people,” then to the right: “How that's actually good?”

“Just like some of your teammates,” quickly replies, while thinking that Demo hand expressions would has been perfect is his gesticulation where the other way around. _“He will place the sheep on his right and the goats on his left;”_ no matter what, the Bible will never leave the recondites of his head after all these years, even while drunk.

“Fair,” Demo interrupts his thinking, and laughs again for a while. "I _love_ my job!" he adds, "It's just I know is not well seing by _God_."

Meanwhile Demo is giggling, Spy can't believe that Demoman has just mentioned _God_. Is he reading his mind? _Ha!_ Spy tilts his head to the left at the same time he places his right hand in his chin, having already his legs crossed. The conversation has become more interesting.

"Not like Soldier who... _I love him_ , but you know."

Spy knows what Demo means: "this is what God would use to shoot somebody." How he would forget that phrase that could only be pronounced by the one a only Jane Doe. Then Spy asks:

"Are you worried about God?"

"What? Me? No. I was just ramblin’," says, while also tilting his head—to the right in his case—looking at the the ceiling.

When Spy is about to add what he thinks in response, once again failing to remember that Demo is more a sad drunk than a happy one, Demo himself interrupts:

“Listen Spy,” suddenly serious, firmly looking at the other eyes.

_Oh no. What went wrong this time?_

Spy feels a hole forming and growing in his chest.

“I know ye think I'm stupid—”

“ _I don't—_ ”

“—but I'm not as stupid as ye think.”

As soon as Demo says that, an uncomfortable silent starts. Both awkwardy avoid the look of the other.

“...And?” The french ends the silent, not being able to think in something better. Looks up at Demo.

“I dunno where I was going wi' that,” he shrugs.

“Oh.”

Spy thinks that maybe is nothing after all, relieved. A false alarm. But he still cannot help not feel minuscule.

“But I don't like ye as much as ye think.”

_Shit._

“I mean...” Demo swallows and scratches the back of his neck, appearing embarrassed of his phrasing. Tavish sighs as he looks at the floor. Then, looks back at Spy eyes again and says:

“I can't trust you man. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” he is not. “I'm a spy and—”

He tries to joke about their jobs and everything again—like when they were drinking few moments ago—to ease the atmosphere between the two. In addition to that, he's trying to ignore that Demo has just crushed his heart, although he can't rationalize it as that—Too drunk, everything seems alcohol fault.

However, Demoman has leave him alone and Spy didn't notice until that moment.

_He was serious about it._

Perhaps one of his mistakes is never taking the man seriously enough, aside from being himself a perfectionist and ironically having many, many other defects and some quirks, as much as he hates. Certainly getting too sensitive while drunk isn't helping him neither, although he can't remember if he always was like that. If it's something else it doesn't matter right now: it isn't like their parties didn't ended in a similar way every single time, being something that hasn't changed.

Except that this time hurts in particular, for some reason.

Spy glares at the bottle and sees that is almost done. Contrary to his manners, he drinks what is left directly from the bottle. No needs for a third one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This originally was planned to have a happy ending, and then I "ruined" it. Now it will have to be longer. Next chapter will have Demoman's perspective. Here he just left at the end, sorry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Last Supper._  
>  They think they are really different when in reality...

Since the last incident in the piano, nobody has play it. The days of the mercs who aren’t a pianist messing around with the instrument are long gone, prefering to do other things instead. After the drunk fight of Demo and Spy the dinner room has remained silent of any music. No radio, no other mercs playing their own instrument. 

Most of the time the mercs don’t even eat the meals all together in the same room it if is not a special occasion, preferring eating inside the kitchen room, their own rooms or whatever place that please them. Luckily today is one of those special occasions, after a big victory. They have crushed the enemy team in each battle for all the duration of the week, defending with ease, being today the last battle before the RED team was declared victorious.

The problem is, even in this case, not everyone follows the expected manners. Spy, Soldier, Sniper, Pyro and Demoman actually stay for this occasions, but: Pyro picks their food, goes to their room, and comes back to their chair; Soldier either eats everything in their plate or doesn’t eat at all, no in-between; Demo only eats if he is in a good mood, if not he will only pick greasy food; finally, Spy has never eat much, if barely anything. At the end of the dinner, no matter how much food was cook it seems it always lacks food, picky eaters and everything. Due to most of the mercenaries have know the face of the hunger, a few of them eat a bit too much in behalf of the picky eaters.

Demoman’s mood until the dinner was alright. For some reason, the mere fact of entering that room has ruin his mood. As predicted, he only eats the french fries, not even the meat. Soldier notices this, who is still in the middle of eating his ribs. Acknowledging that previous discussion have never worked, he thinks that maybe cheering up his friend would make him eat as he should.

“Demo,” he calls, “why don’t you play the piano?”

Demoman slowly blinks. “Aye, why not,” he smiles.

He pushes his chair back to go to the instrument. Once there, he raises the piano fallboard and stood his hands in the air for above the piano's keys.

He freezes.

Demoman’s breathing loses its harmony, while he watches his hands starting to tremble. He doesn’t understand why is he panicking over something he is supposed to love.

_“Can I ask you how you learned to play piano?”_

Oh, _that_. _That_ childhood trauma. He knows well about it.

Demoman barely notices how Soldier rushes him out of the room, to the favorite couch of Demo where he crashes to sleep the most.

“I’m sorry, this is my fault.”

“Wh-What? This has nothing to do with you,” he replies, starting to calm down.

“Then what happened?”

Demoman blushes slightly, ashamed of his weakness over something that should be long suppered. He looks up at Soldier, still having trouble finding his words. If his childhood wasn’t exactly happy, at least in his first years, whatever happened to Soldier in the past must have been appalling, even if him doesn’t remember. Most of the team agrees about that behind Soldier’s back. They don’t need to be psychology experts to presume that.

But there is no point in lying to a friend.

“I got myself thinkin’ too much in my adoptive parents.”

No details needs to be explained: Soldier already knows.

_“Oh no.”_

“Yeah, a quite dreary thought,” continues with a broken voice. His eye is watery, but he won’t let himself cry. Not while he can.

“I still think was my fault, I shouldn't have suggested—” 

Demoman places his hand in Soldier shoulder. “It is not, Soldier. Please don’t blame yerself.”

“What I don’t understand is why this is _this_ sad for you now when you have been playing that piano since it's here with no problem.”

Demoman gulps. He thinks in a familiar masked face.

* * *

After managing to convince Soldier to go back to eat his dinner before it went cold, he hasn’t move an inch from the couch. How he would come back after a scene like that?

What Demoman doesn’t know if that the team haven’t judge him or anything like that. On the contrary, they worry about the scottish. Is just... you can’t ask to a bunch of paid killers to act accordingly: they do not know better. They are content with Soldier telling them that Demo is fine, or mostly fine. They are also sure that anyone going there to ask for him who isn’t Soldier would be yelled by an embarrassed and too proud Demoman.

Soldier goes at midnight to say his goodnight and to asks again if he is fine. Of course he is fine! It isn’t he can afford not being fine. Soldier leaves after a few, not convinced about what Demo has tell him.

Demoman stays still for who knows how long. He wants a drink but he can’t find his volition right now to move away from the goddamn couch, at least not until he listen a melody coming from the dinner room.

_That snake._

He finds Spy playing the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata, which its true name Demo almost never remember, just as the names of each of the three movements. Everytime the subject comes up is evident Spy’s annoyance, even if he tries to desimulate. All of his expressions scream “ _you should know that!_ ”

Just when Spy finishes playing, Demo sits next to him on the right without saying a word, hands on his knees.

“Do you feel better, Demoman?” Spy asks, his eyes not moving from the keys.

Demo grunts sofly, failing to repress his urgent to express the sound.

“Just keep playing, Spy,” tries to say in a cheerful tone. After all, the next piano piece it’s supposed to be a cheerful one.

Spy limits himself to play the piano again. Split a second in and Demoman realizes that Spy has skipped the second movement for the last one.

_Why?_

Demoman raises his hands above the keys. With doing that he can’t take a step back, but he is undecided if play normally along with Spy or bothering Spy only for the sake of doing it. Well, he thinks he can rationalize that in a better phrasing, just as he grins: he can’t skip an opportunity to avenge himself. No, even better: to work in behalf of the strings of the karma.

Testing the patience of Spy, Demoman press one random key. Justice has never been this fun.

But Spy keeps playing like nothing, so Demoman tries again. Out of tone key after another, Spy ignores them with a straight face. Irritated, Demoman decides to take the matter in his hands, or more exactly, in his feet, abruptly stepping on Spy right feet hard enough to also press the piano pedal in a jangling manner, the contrary of what Beethoven wanted.

Spy’s face contorts in rage as he snorts. He bends down, hitting with fists the keyboard of the piano, making a harsh short lived cacophony.

Demo chuckles nervously. 

“Demoman,” Spy jabs, “Don’t _ever_ do that again.”

“Sorry—”

After getting hit in the hand the other time for something as mere as a mistake, he better should respect Spy’s limits, Demoman decides. Spy has his, quirks.

Spy straightens his back, recovers his composure and opens his hands. “Don’t be sorry. I understand is my fault.”

The lips of Demoman make a line. Spy is right, however, Demo knows that his way to deal with the matter wasn’t exactly right or, mature. _Oh, great_ , he’s ashamed again.

“I ken ye’r, uhm...” How he can call Spy the uptight, perfectionist, and obsessive motherfucker person with a superiority complex he is without sounding offensive?

“We really should consider if continuing hanging around or not,” replies Spy, turning around his face to Demoman for the first time since he sat next to Spy.

He is being weird now, fuck. Demo does like spending time with Spy, the thing is, no matter what they do, everything goes to shit. They are certainly too different persons who think too complictly to attempt to have a functional friendship. But they share their love for the same subjects, especially the piano they have to share since it was bring to the base, and, drinking. Of fucking course they don’t get along, they end up for bringing the worst of each other each time.

“I mess with people even when I’m not trying,” Spy continues.

Demoman open his mouth in agape. “Hey, I can be annoyin’ prick too, I was just, messin’ with ya as ye said.”

“ _‘Prick’_ , huh?”

_“Oh fuck.” Manners Demoman, manners!_

Spy laughs. “ _Aw_ , Tavish. It seems neither of us think before talk. If I did I wouldn’t have asked a too personal question the other day.”

“You didn’t knew, and that’s what friends do, ye know, nae stalkin’ or something...” _God-Damn-It._

“ _Ouch,_ ” musits Spy with a smile, changing his look back to the keyboard.

“Sorry. I better keep quiet now, ye’r better talkin’ than me.”

“No Tavish, you are right.” He clenches his fists again, gently. “You’re truly entertaining.”

“ _‘Entertaining’_ ,” repeats Demoman, scowling his face. “I’m a fuckin’ joke for you, isnae it?”

Now things make more sense.

“What?!” surprise crosses Spy’s face. “No, listen—”

“No, ye have to listen now. Ye never hanged around with me before ye and Engie got this fuckin’ piano, after years workin’ together. Dinnae tell that that’s nae true.”

Spy keeps quiet for a few seconds.

“It is true,” he affirms in a low tone. “A mistake. I really take pleasure in spending time with you, I should’ve approached you sooner.”

“And why’s that?” Demoman crosses his arms.

The french licks his lips. “You know why, if I tell you aloud you will get angry even if it is the correct answer,” he suspires. “I would be a hypocrite if I didn't acknowledge that I also have the very same, problem.” 

But less. Either way, they definitely do not have the best way of socializing.

“Fuck you, Spy,” says with almost no energy, lowering his head. He wouldn’t be mad, he would be sorrow. That’s different even if he overreacts... Well, not for Spy. He knows him well, at least knows how to read people better than anyone.

But Demoman is also good at reading others.

“Where are we goin’ with this?” he asks.

Spy opens his eyes widely. “What do you mean?” 

“Ye ken what I mean,” continues without looking at the other face. He finally raises his sight to Spy: “You have been flirting for a while, isn’t it?”

Immediately after Demo occults his gaze again, looking to his right.

“I...” Spy tries, “I guess I have,” he confesses sofly.

Demoman looks even harder to the right, heavy breathing. He murmurs an almost inaudible _“Oh my God,”_ while trying to hide his smile with his right hand. After a few seconds he finally peers back at Spy.

Spy is pale. He has retracted his hands to his lap, still clenching them. There is misgiving in his face, but also a little outrage, glaring at Demo and waiting... _Oh no_ , is he thinking that Demo rejected him? Someone like him must not be used of being refused.

Demo changes his position in the piano stool to completely face Spy, placing his legs at each side of the seat. With his own right hand he takes Spy’s right, squeezing it sweetly. 

“Hey, calm down,” he soothes, “I think I’m as nervous as you right now.”

Demo strokes the gloved hand of Spy with his thumb, whose face appears to have recovers its colors. He starts to laughs awkwardly, quickly being follow by Demo, who’s in awe because of how delicious Spy’s laugh is. Others would said that Spy’s voice has been ruined by habit of smoking but Demo adores his handsome voice.

“I really want this, Demo, it took me too long to realize, but...”

“But it won’t work,” Demoman thinks ahead. He chuckles with a crooked smile.

Spy turns around his hand to takes with his own Demoman’s one. With his free hand he closes the piano fallboard, condemning the instrument to remain in silent.

Spy brows knits. “I think I will hurt you,” he whispers, “I don’t want that.”

“Ya want tae backstab me?” jokes Demoman. 

He knows well what Spy mean. He is, dangerous, he didn’t got his title as the most dangerous men in the world from nothing. Around his teammates, he might try to be a decent person, but everything about around him is so calculed and artificial, so well crafted, that’s impossible to completely trust, that without counting him showing his contemptuous ass soon or later. He also might be a _gallant_ , but everyone knows he doesn’t stay in one bed for too long before going to other.

“You know what I mean.”

“Well Mister I-am-not-a-good-person...”

While Spy bursts into a short laugh, Demoman releases Spy’s hand to place it on Spy left side of his face. Spy takes the hint, turning his upper body to face Demo and taking Demo gently by his neck with both hands. They stare at each other with yearning before meeting their lips into a tender kiss. Spy’s hands slide up Demo’s nape, while him takes the waist of Spy with his free hand, pulling him. Their mouths separate for a brief moment. Both unable not smirk and still eyes closed, feeling each other, they kiss again and again in several smooches. Later, the new loves tilt their heads to the right for the first of much deeper kisses.

 _Good Lord_ , he really missed this. It has been a while since Demo kissed someone, and a longer time since he kissed such a wonderful kind of kisser.

When they stop kissing, both of the mercenaries glance to the door at the same time. Fortunately there is no one observing them. They pull back, returning to their previous positions. Demo takes Spy hand once again, interlacing their fingers this time, supporting their hands in the closed piano. He resumes stroking Spy’s hand without even thinking.

Both have a beam in their mouths, however, Demoman’s smile shrinks until it turns into a pout.

“What’s wrong?” questions Spy with a slight smile.

“If not like I dinnae have my own doubs, Spy,” admits Demoman. “We’ve talk a lot and I still feel like I barely ken ye.” He stops caressing Spy’s hand with his thumb, however he keeps holding his hand.

“That’s normal.”

In this case it is due to Spy nature but he doesn’t has to like it.

“I... I dinnae think ya want the same from me ‘n’ vice versa.”

“We can’t figure that without even trying.”

Demo grunts. “Are ye goin’ tae suggest to go to talk to yer room?” _That’s all you fucking want, isn’t it?_

Spy sighs. “Yes, but because I don’t think neither of us want to be surprised while smooching in the dinner room by another coworker.”

Demoman squints his eye.

“To _talk_ , Tavish, without having to worry, and sober. We are adults, not adolescents. You don’t have to sleep there, you can sleep in the, roof if you desire, I won’t stop you.”

“I got ya,” Demo agrees reluctantly, “stop with yer bullshite before we kill each other before even goin’.” 

Spy cackles while he parsimoniously moves away from the piano. “Let’s go,” pressures Demoman when he is already close to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...to love one another as I have loved you.  
>  this got too long so it will need at least one additional chapter (fuck!), hopefully it will be done before half a year (sorry!)  
> btw, rating wont change dont worry.


End file.
